A Video Is Worth A Thousand Words

Actually, it's probably more than that. But really--take 4 minutes to check this out. This is one talented lyricist. You know me. . .if I thought I could say it better, I'd try. Enjoy!

Vocabulary Queen

The TV remotes are off limits to the girls. So is the TV unless they have permission. But the other day Grace thought she'd get smart and try to do it herself. Clicking away with the remote (facing backwards no less) she actually hit the right button and got the TV to change channel. Hannah jumped up and down excitedly exclaiming, "Grace, You're a genius!" Then she turned to me and added, "And you're a genius too, Mom!" Surprised at this new word, I asked "How about you, Hannah? Are you a genius too?" She tilted her little head to one side and thought about it for a minute. Then she rolled her eyes and said with a hint of disgust in her voice, "No. . . I'm just difficult."

Homophone Hubub

We have been enjoying a visit from Jack's mom, affectionately known as Crazy Grandma. She has been shopping, and playing and just plain having a good time with our little girls. Grace especially, has really taken to Crazy Grandma and wants to do everything with her. But when Grace asked her yesterday if she would take her to "buy some pears," we were all a little confused. We had talked about going for ice cream maybe, but pears? Still, she persisted. "I want to go look for pears with Grandma!" No one understood, and sweet Gracie still has trouble at times in getting her message across clearly. So we gave up for a while, but when she brought it up again, we asked her if she was sure she wanted pears. . .the fruit. "No. . .pairs!" she exclaimed, grabbing a pair of flip-flops out of her shoe bin and waving them in the air. "Pairs of shoes!"

Now that's Crazy Grandma's girl! I expect them home any minute. . .pairs in tow. Or maybe I should say, "on toe." Pun intended!

The Difference Between the Sexes

This is a pre-blog experience, but I had to get it down for posterity. (No pun intended.)

About a year ago my friend, Kelly, was watching my girls for the afternoon. This particular friend had a nearly 3 year-old boy and twin 18 month old daughters. With three little ones, going potty was pretty much a family event. . .so naturally my girls just joined the crowd. Now, since there are no little boys around our house, my sweet girls had no idea that boys' equipment was any different from theirs.

So, upon joining the bathroom throng, they were stunned to discover this new thing which Brody, (being a boy), proudly showed off. Noting their obvious curiosity, Kelly quickly jumped in with a simple, factual explanation and all went happily on their way.

Except my darling Grace. She always needs time to process new things and after some very quiet, thoughtful minutes she was ready to talk things over. Going up to Kelly, she summed it all up saying, "Ok. So girls. . .just have butts. . . .And boys. . .have butts with nuts?"

If You Can't Laugh at Yourself--Part 2

You Know You're Butt's Too Big When. . .

***This Post is Dedicated to You, Jen--from your old pal, B.B.B. Every one of these actually happened to me.

1) You can actually wear your maternity pants backwards for a whole day without realizing it.

2) Your pregnancy results in numerous stretch marks. . .all in the back!

3) You volunteer to carry the backpack on family hikes because you know if you let out the straps enough it will just rest on your "trailer," keeping neck and shoulder strain to a minimum.

4) The lawn chair you've been sitting in comes with you when you stand up.

5) Your daughter, helping to fold laundry, spies you new pink lace undies and gleefully snatches them out, waving them in the air and shouts "Mama! Did you get me a new dress?!?"

6) You can sit down and lean forward with your elbows on the table and your four-year-old climbs up and uses your fanny for her own little bench--that is, when two of you can sit on it at once!!

And if you haven't figured it out after all that, you most certainly know your butt is too big when:

7) Your 3 year-old (locked in the bathroom stall with you at Wal-Mart) gets around behind you and loudly exclaims in awe and wonder, "Mama! You have a BIG BUTT!"

[Sorry. No picture with this post. :0]

A New First

Hannah made her first attempt at drawing a guy

a few weeks ago--just before she turned 4.

Here it is in all it's glory.

They are exactly what you think they are.

Just like Daddy

Note Grace's little white "work boots" mixed in the pile in Daddy's closet with all of his work shoes. She proudly brought me up to show me how even she tossed them in there "just like Daddy!"



The girls actually kissed me good-bye, took their little bagged lunches, and packed their "tools" into the back of their white work vans, "just like Daddy."




"Mama! Come quick and see my squishers (whiskers) just like Daddy's."

What Dad wouldn't be blessed by such adoration?

My Shining Moment

About a month ago, we had friends over for dinner. They are a very nice family from church, both parents very involved in leadership of men's and women's ministry and three well-mannered, nice kids. My girls took an immediate interest in the middle child, a 10-year-old boy, and proceeded to chase him around the yard, giggling and twittering.

Finally, he came over to where I sat visiting with his mom and plopped in a lawn chair. Grace quickly caught up and flopped across his lap. He seemed a little irritated, and so I quickly intervened with words of abundant wisdom. "Grace, you shouldn't sit in boys' laps unless they say it's ok."

Silence ensued, as the other mom just stared at me with half a twinkle in her eye, and a thousand unspoken responses flipping through her mind. Being oh so sharp, I finally began to realize that maybe my words were askew and replayed them in my mind. Slowly, it dawned on me what I had said. Yikes! Thank Heaven that this family is not only nice, but is also possessed of a fantastic sense of humor.

You are What You Eat?

These days, Hannah actually prefers to be called Hannah Banana. She seems to think it an honor, a title of distinction and respect. So you can imagine my delight when I glanced in the living room to see this:

If You Can't Laugh at Yourself

Recently, I picked up a pile of little girls' ballet-wear at a garage sale. The girls have been having a delightful time dancing and twirling.






I was jealous.

Being neither the most athletic type, nor the most graceful, ballet was not part of my childhood repertoire. But I always longed to wear the slender leotards and flowing skirts and spin my way to dance heaven. I imagined that if I could just wear something so light and beautiful, even I could float gracefully across the room.



So here at last, was my chance.













OK. Now that that's out of my system. . . .

Learning

Hannah is my little kitchen helper--constantly perched on the counter and sticking her fingers into whatever concoction is nearby. Thus, I have spent some time teaching her the dangers presented by raw meat and such. Still, you never know what they actually hear and remember.

Now I know. The other day I was making meat loaf and as I plunged my hands into the mix bowl of ground beef, egg, milk, crumbs, etc. I heard her cry out as she dashed into the room to stop me, "No Mama! Don't touch that. It's wrong meat!"

Dumb and Dumber

All's fair now. I have permission to tell about Jack's latest goof, as long as I report my own too. So, Jack first.




The other day Jack came home from work and flopped back on the couch. As I flopped next to him I noticed he had a large bandage on his leg. Concerned, I immediately asked what happened. He glanced down and began to pick at the corner of the bandage, "Oh that," he said, pulling back the gauze pad to reveal his wound. "It's just a scratch, but it sure bled like a stuffed pig!"

I chuckled and said, "A what?"

He looked at me with disbelief. Hope surged in his eyes as he thought that he had finally discovered a word or expression of the English language that I wasn't familiar with. "A stuffed pig! Haven't you ever heard that expression?"

I hated to shatter his joy, but knowing he'd certainly want to share in my hysterical laughter, I said (as gently as possible of course) "Stuck pig, Honey. It bled like a stuck pig." I was right--he did share in my hysterical laughter!

Ok, my turn. I hate to tell this. I've a feeling it will haunt me for the rest of my life, but a deal's a deal.

Just about a year ago, we got a window air conditioner. It has been worth it's weight in gold already, despite the fact that it will probably cost that much to run it by the end of the summer. At any rate, I quickly learned how to use it most effectively--being the resident gadget queen and all. There are four settings: Cool, Fan, Energy Saver and Dehum. We generally use energy saver, but one unusually humid day last month Jack set it to Dehum. As he did, he turned to me and asked whether I had used the dehumidifier yet and how well it works.

Time stopped for a second as the past year of my air conditioned life passed before my eyes and I breathed out, "Oh man." Being the ever loving and attentive husband that he is, Jack immediately noticed my reaction. I tried to brush it off as nothing, but he smelled blood. He kept after me for several minutes before I finally confessed. " Well, ever since we got that thing, I've thought it was unfortunate that a brand new air conditioner was just as noisy in "Dehum" mode as in the others!"

So there you have it. Dumb and Dumber. You decide which. (But keep your decision to yourself. I don't want to know!)

You'll Laugh At This Later. . .

It had been a very long day. Bickering little girls, too many days of hot weather, and too many stops on my errand list had all of us walking the fine line between sanity and "that other place." Just three items left on my list and we could get home to air conditioning and some quiet rest time.

As I stood wearily comparing yogurt prices, I turned to see my (very well potty-trained) 4 year-old inexplicably squatting on the seat of the shopping cart front of everyone. Yes, I said squatting. Everything sort of went into slow-motion for me as I forced my eyes downward to see pee flowing over the seat, down into my purse just below, spreading over our popsicles and bananas below that, and pooling in a nice yellow puddle on the floor.

You’ve always wondered what it takes to make me speechless. Now you know. Of course, I more than compensated for it on the trip home.

But by the time Jack came home a few hours later, I was able to chuckle. . .a little. Even as I pulled my dripping cell phone and badly smeared journal out of my purse!

Have a wonderful day, and don't stop laughing!

Let Sleeping Beauties Lie

Last night I awoke around 4 am to find Hannah cuddled up next to me. I hate to wake her because she is so snuggly and warm, but we have a strict "no kids in our bed until sunrise" rule. Trying to pick her up is like trying to pick up jello. No matter how you do it, most of her slips back onto the bed and you come up with only an arm or a leg. As she slowly woke up, she began to fight me, kicking and hitting and giving me "the look" (which could scare the stripes off a zebra, by the way.) After a few minutes struggle, she finally succumbed and went into my arms, but not without one final desperate attempt to be left alone in our bed. In a scratchy little voice, tinged with bitterness and accusation, she said "I'm NOT having a good dream!"

Sing Along Everyone!

Enjoy. Kids are a kick, huh?

Prayers

Bedtime prayers tonight--as best I could get it all down immediately after tucking them in.

Hannah first--abridged version (meaning that while the following is pretty much word for word, many of the following statements were originally repeated numerous times in an effort to defer bedtime a bit more--I have removed at least ten minutes worth of repetetion):

• "Thank you Lord," [pronounced throughout as low-ud] "for these curtains with the flowers.
• Thank you Lord for Claire who loves me!
• Thank you Lord for my beautiful Mama and for her beautiful outfit [sweat-shorts, t-shirt and frizzy ponytail].
• Thank you Lord for these marks on my wall.
• Thank you Lord for these hands and these bones that I love.
• Thank you Lord for Kujo [her big sister's Chihuahua] that when he bites me or drops his bones on my foot, that Sissy just spanks him.
• Thank you Lord for my beautiful feet and toenails and for my beautiful eyes and eyebrows.
• Thank you Lord for these pillows and this mess.
• Thank you Lord for Daddy's tools.
• Thank you Lord for everything in this room.
• Thank you Lord for these marks on the wall--again. . .whatever they are.
• Thank you Lord for everything you made. . .people. . .and friends. . . . . . . and more people. . .and friends.
• And that's it.
• Thank you Lord for a wonderful God. . .for our hearts.
• Thank you Lord for me. . .and you. Amen!"

The moment she said Amen, she looked at me suddenly and said, "Hey! God can't have ears!"

Grace next:

First breath--"Thank you for Jesus, that He loves us and He's so good to us and He died on the cross for our sins. You love us and give us hearts and make us little again and I know you love us and I know that I love you and you will come and get us some day soon and He's awesome and He's great!"

Breathe again--"Thank you Lord that you love us so much and He'll come back again for us some day and I'll be with Jesus and He'll be with me and see me in heaven with Grandpa and all the people, and help us that we sleep good and wake up happy. . . . Amen."

Huge smile, curls up, sucks her thumb and snuggles in for sleep.


Mama last:

Thank you Lord for my precious girls. For stinky blankies, dirty faces and misshapen thumbs. For what you are doing in their little hearts and the thankfulness that you are working into them. Watch over them as they sleep and keep them in your care. Protect them from all harm and keep them on your path as you prepare them for your purpose for their lives. In Jesus' name, Amen.

Amen. Amen. Amen

Rain Dance!

A rare and precious treat--thunder and lightening and rain, rain, rain!

Summer Vacation

Hannah likes to play games with her Daddy about giving him hugs and kisses. The more he begs, the more she plays hard to get. Tonight before bedtime, he asked plaintively "Where's my hugs and kisses?"

She looked at him condescendingly and said, "Daddy, I told you already that all my hugs and all my kisses went away because it's summer. They're gone now."

And I thought I was the creative mind in the family!

A Girl Can't be Too Prepared!

Grace went on a hike with her dad the other day—just the two of them. On arriving home, she excitedly told me that she was "gonna be born again." Daddy quickly interjected that they had talked about Jesus and salvation on their hike. And Grace "prayed the sinner’s prayer" with him. He explained to her what it meant to be born again—that Jesus makes you new and that you start over spiritually—like a baby again. She thought this was neat, but soon moved on to other topics and didn’t bring it up again until today.

As I was going through some old clothes to give away, she discovered an outfit that she wore a couple of years ago. Being a lover of all things pink and girly, she immediately snapped it up and tried to squeeze it over her head. Much to her dismay it was too small, and I told her that she wore it when she was a baby, but that it doesn’t fit her anymore.

She thought about this for about three seconds before she quickly rolled the outfit up into a tight ball, and shoved it firmly into my hands. "Keep this for me Mama! I want you to save it for me ‘cuz when Jesus comes back to get us and I’m a baby again, I want to wear this!"

(Would that be the ten foolish virgins or the ten wise ones? :)

Who else but my Grace would plan her wardrobe for Jesus' return?

I Rest My Case

My Hannah just might be a lawyer one day. Here's my evidence.

The other day she and Grace had a little conflict. It bore investigating, so I questioned Hannah first. She listed Grace's various sins in the matter, and I made some mental notes between the lines. She seemed to be finished with her side of the story, so I began to ask Grace for hers. But before I could get my first question out, Hannah interrupted--

"Wait! I have one more detail I need to tell you." She did, and then closed her case by saying, "Ok. That's all the details. You can talk to Grace now."

Now maybe this just flew over your head, and you're saying, "I don't get this one." Let me just say, in a world where the daily vocabulary is anchored by words like "poop," "jammies," and "Whaaaaaaaah," a three year-old framing up her closing argument with a word like "details" and permission to question the next witness kind of gets your attention.

All the evidence points to lawyer, but you decide. I rest my case.

Tribute

This will not be my most exciting post, my most entertaining, or even informative. But it may be my most worthwhile.

Grandma came over tonight. Though she lives only blocks away, weeks can pass without seeing her or (to my shame) even talking to her. She is a dear lady, and is maybe the best person I know at picturing the grace of God. Tonight, she said something that I want to remember.

When I asked how her Mother's Day went, she smiled and shook her head slightly. It seems that both of her children who live here in town had other plans for the day. Seeing my shocked look, she stitched together an explanation for me, and of course they were entirely legitimate things that occupied her kids' attention. But I could see the little bit of hurt and lonliness that leaked out around the edges of her words, and the end result was still that Grandma, nearly 90, and a widow, was left to her own devices on that special day.

I was upset--that this happened, and that I hadn't invited her myself, as she would certainly have been welcome at our gathering. Seeing my frustration, Grandma went on to say this, "I am a content mother. I know none of my children would think of hurting me. . . .So, I just stayed home and had a lazy day, and I thanked God."

Now, grace has been defined for me as essentially "unearned, undeserved favor or kindness." And that is exactly what she showed her children that day. It isn't that they are mean or abusive to her, or even neglectful. But Mother's Day is Mother's Day. A mom expects or at least hopes for the nearness of her children on a day like that--the ones who are nearby anyway. I expect any lonely older widow might see that as an opportunity to be bitter, or to complain, or at least to get a little depressed. But Grandma made the most of it for herself, and thanked God. She thanked God and prayed for her children and grandchildren--off leading their own lives--even on a day meant to honor the one who gave them life in the first place.

I hope to be so gracious--to give people the benefit of the doubt like that--to thank them when I could "justifiably" be resentful. To assume--to choose to believe that no hurt is intentional. To pray for them even when I feel slighted or neglected. To thank God for all they are--for His work in their life, especially when I think maybe I deserve a little thanks too.

After all, that is what a Mom does. It is what she should do. It is what Grandma does, and it is why I honor her today.

Happy Mother's Day, Grandma! And thank you for your living example--the one you are not even aware of. I love you!

Snapshot of My Heart

It’s a night of a million thoughts—but this picture sticks in my mind. I guess it captures my life right now. Is it because things are so blissful or perfect? No. But the other day as we played with the camera’s timer feature and (all three of us) repeatedly rushed headlong onto the couch in front of the camera, we got a lot of funny pictures. Some were blurry with action, or had very fake smiles (witness Gracie above). Others caught us with our eyes closed. Still others caught us unprepared or distracted by a stubbed toe or the kitchen timer. And in the end, we got a number of really good pictures too.

And I was just thinking that if you took random snapshots of my life and attitude, you would find much the same thing. In the course of capturing the really sweet moments—you would end up with lots of others too. Pictures blurry with too much running around, funny—even embarrassing faces, eyes closed to the blessings around me. Some would show me completely unprepared for what I’m facing, and probably many would catch me distracted from my purpose by discomfort or a myriad of tyrannical details. But then there are those others. And tonight is one of them.

Outwardly--my kitchen is messy. My family is sick. My creative inclinations fly about like Noah’s dove—with no place to set their feet. My writing ambitions far exceed my time or energy levels. Let’s not even talk about the toilets. My newly pregnant stepdaughter and friend live entirely too far away from us. I am completely unprepared for the school week ahead. Gracie talked me dizzy all day and I spent the whole morning oblivious to the most ridiculous hair day I’ve had in a very long time.

But that is only what shows on the outside. You see, I had time to pray tonight. Jack was content on the couch downstairs, the girls were snuggled together in their bed singing Deep and Wide over and over and over and. . . . I locked myself in my bathroom with my Bible, closed the toilet lid, pushed aside the dirty clothes, and sat cross-legged on the linoleum to talk to my God.

After a day of calling back and forth to one another as we “went about business,” I finally got to sit down and talk with Him face to face. We talked about my unruly dreams and my laziness as a teacher. I talked to Him about the concerns on my heart, and He talked to me about His. I thanked Him for many things—things just between us. It was a pleasure to know that He doesn’t mind my silly hair, or messy kitchen. And I remembered again why I love Him—because He first loved me! And that is so much more than enough!

So today, this picture is me. Today, you caught me smiling.

Shoe Idolatry

To say "Gracie loves shoes." would be a massive understatement--like saying "Minnesota has a lot of lakes."

Happy Mom

I LOVE MY KIDS!

I know. If you are a regular reader you are saying "Duh! That's almost all you talk about!" But I am discovering, or rediscovering a love for them that goes beyond the cute stories and the excitement of watching them grow and do wonderful things. I don't know that that could rightly be called Love in the first place as it is focused on my own pride and self-gratification through my children.

I'm talking about love that gives up (extremely) precious minutes of sleep at 2:30 am to comfort a little girl terrified of the train whistling across town.

Love that daily confesses her sin of anger or grumbling to her kids and asks them to forgive her.

Love that sets her book down 15 times in just two pages to listen--really listen--to the endless, rambling, nonsensical and crucially important thoughts of a 5 year old.

Love that cleans up the clutter that grows faster than dandelions on a Minnesota lawn--and does it with a song on her lips.

Love that reads the facial expression on her friend that says, "Your daughter is begging for a spanking!" but instead offers a gentle, private reprimand because she knows her daughter’s defiant response just now really sprang from a late bedtime the night before combined with a lack of maturity and self-control—not (this time) from a rebellious defiant heart.

Love that purposes to enjoy her daily tasks and responsibilities—not because cooking and cleaning and teaching are such a jolly good time, but because she really is thankful for the opportunity to share in her children’s lives, and because she doesn’t want them to ever feel as though they are a burden that is keeping her from something else she’d rather be doing.

Love that smiles and holds her tongue as a child persistently scrapes crumbs off the table into her hand with a fork, then shows her how to vacuum up the ones that didn't quite make it.

Love that finds ways to motivate her active children to sit quietly for 15 minutes a day—reading their Bibles because it is better for them than air and water.

Love that puts soft soap on her own tongue in front of her kids because she said a naughty word in front of them.

Love that expends the energy to solve yet another "I had it first!" argument by encouraging one or both of them to lovingly think of the other as better than herself and willingly give up the disputed object.

Love that notices the irritated looks of other people in the restaurant at the volume of her children, gently whispers to them to tone down, and refuses to roll her eyes or act in any way embarrassed or unnecessarily harsh toward her children just to prove to people that she’s "in control."

Love that notices not only every time a child disobeys, but takes special notice of their obedience--and affirms them for it.

Love that turns off the TV and helps her children to find something creative and interesting to do with their time.

Love that finds or makes ways for her children join her in serving others sacrificially—when it is hard, or unpleasant and there is something much more fun we’d rather be doing.

Love that sees a daughter who is having a terrible time controlling her body and emotions, gently and firmly removes her to a private place, and takes the time to pray with and teach her how to calm herself when she feels out of control--instead of just yelling at her to "Chill out!" or "Quit it--NOW."

Love that turns from unfinished dinner preparations to snuggle and tickle the tummy of a girl whose "love language" is physical touch.

Love that lets her daughter sit on precious kitchen counter space and "help" for hours a day because she loves to be with Mama.

Love that makes no apology for dirty bathroom and kitchen floor when company comes for dinner because she used excessive amounts of time during the day to talk and pray with her girls about attitudes and how to make guests feel welocme in our home--no matter what.

Love that sees the critical looks and hears the "unspoken" expectations of others regarding "a good mother" and vows never to burden her children with the pressure of trying to behave just right—just so others will think she’s a good mom.

This is the kind of love I am talking about. It is not a formula or a procedure. It is born of God—hour by hour, (or minute by minute) through the work of the Holy Spirit in my life. By the graciousness of God, it sets me free from the heavy and darkly oppressive rules, formulas, expectations and fears that sometimes hang very low over my head. It is courageous, and terrifying, potent and gutsy, and I am so thankful to God for leading me along this road—trod by so many others and paved by Jesus Christ himself. May God grant me and you the courage and faith to persevere and not faint as we walk this road with our children each day.

A Sign of the Times?

Oooh! Should I call a doctor?

Am I soon to be the proud (?) grandmother of an alien-esque lavender pony from outer space?

Or just the amused Mama of a suburban princess cowgirl?

Ride 'em Hannah! Hold on tight!

[Whatever happened to broom handle ponies? I guess this is the new millenium.]

Oh ME of Little Faith

A few months ago, during our only snowfall this year that stuck around long enough to let us pile, throw and eat it, we made a terrible discovery. Grace had outgrown her mittens, and had nothing to protect her little hands while she piled, threw and ate the new snow!

So, I left her to snuggle on the warm couch with Daddy while I walked to Wal-Mart with Hannah for mittens. However, before I could get out the door, she specially requested that I get "sparkly mittens." Now I have never found much of anything in stock at Wal-Mart right after the holidays, and had certainly never seen sparkly mittens there at any time. I told her not to get her hopes up. I would just do the best I could.

As I moved towards the door, Daddy piped up and suggested we pray and ask God for sparkly mittens. I rolled my mom eyes (the ones on the back of my head--so my family couldn't see them) and stepped back into the room to pray. Not wanting to her to be disappointed, I said, "How about if we just pray that they have mittens." Jack just gave me "the look," and prayed.

As Hannah and I trudged to the back of the store where the racks of children's hats and mittens were, I was much relieved to see that they were stuffed to overflowing with hats and mittens of all kinds. Surely I could find something she would like in her size and my price range. But as we got closer, a little sparkle caught my eye from the very middle of that warm wooly chaos.

I could hardly believe it when I pulled out the only two pairs of sparkly mittens from the whole aisle of winter accessories! One for each of my sweet girls!

I was more than a little sheepish on returning home bearing gifts. . .sparkly mittens for her hands, and a deeper love for the God who cares-- even about the silly childish pleasures of my little girls.

Cranial Peace

This took place a while ago, but I think of it often as it is sort of my "nutshell" picture of what I cherish so much about my Gracie.

You see I have this hair problem. There are these strong-willed tufts of hair on each side of my head that occasionally tire of blending in and following the crowd. Seized with rebellion and resisting all natural and chemical efforts to control them, they sometimes rise up in a coup and demand to be noticed. On such days I have two options. Three actually, but since I look rather silly in hats, I am left to wear little barrettes just over my ears like my girls, or go about my day resembling a great-horned owl.
During one such recent uprising, I spent no small amount of time trying every trick I knew to appease those willful little tufts into submission for a trip to Costco. Just when I thought I had finally achieved a temporary peace with my hair, Grace came up to me with a look of wonder and admiration on her little face.

"Oh, Mama!" She exclaimed with all of her dramatic sincerity, "That's pretty! You look like a butterfly!"

Not really the look I was going for. And yet. . . I made a different kind of peace with my hair that day. Because no matter how bad I think my hair day is, my daughter thinks I'm pretty!

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Our family took advantage of unseasonably warm February weather today to climb Pilot Butte together. We arrived at the top, breathless and in awe of the beauty of the Central Oregon landscape wrapped 360 degrees around us. We could see various familiar spots all over town, and the open range beyond it. Blue-gray clouds hung heavily over the nearest mountains, and we could see a wall of rain spreading slowly across the land towards us. As we paused to admire the rays of "heavenly" sunshine breaking through the clouds to the west, even the chaotic sounds of the city directly below seemed muffled and distant.



But not to Hannah.



Ever observant, she keyed in on the characteristic sound of a Harley Davidson gunning away in the distance. Turning quickly in that direction, she pointed and exclaimed, "Hey! I hear pooping over there!"

She's Baaaack!

This is part 2--the sequel. You may recall that our last adventure ended shortly before Christmas, with our heroine grieving over the death of an old and faithful friend after a long, painful demise. As you know, her grief drove her away from home, and no one quite knew where. It was as though she disappeared into thin air.

And yet, a tiny star of hope twinkled on the horizon--that kind which disappears when you look directly at it, but which now has risen to shine brightly over our heads as we begin our next adventure. Our heroine has returned, and is ready to begin a brand new day.

Read on!

(In case you have forgotten, http://justcanthelpmyself.blogspot.com/)